


Take heart, my boy

by sternflammenden



Category: American Horror Story: Hotel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:48:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. March knows just how to cheer up Tristan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take heart, my boy

Tristan kicked the doorframe, chipping the paint. He winced at the pain. The hotel might be old, but it was solid, seemingly made of stone, iron, something impenetrable. He would normally have been pleasantly surprised to see Mr. March, but he was still filled with a petulant rage. _She_ had kept him waiting. _She_ had left him with Drake, then had sat in the shadows watching, murmuring orders as they fucked each other. As Drake had dug an elbow into his back, spending himself on the sheets. When it was over, Tristan had turned to her, wanting more, but she had only shaken her head, sighing one word. 

"Disappointing." 

So he had thrown on his clothing and stormed out, winding up without even trying, in this part of the hotel. In March’s wing. 

"You're angry," Mr. March said, the cold glint in his eyes contrasting with the cordial smile that stretched across his face. "I can see that. But there is no need to take it out on my poor hotel!" He ran his hand along with doorframe, caressing the damage, the other hand gripping Tristan's elbow like a vise. He clucked his tongue, as though chastising a naughty child. 

Tristan, unable to pull away, allowed the other man to propel him gently from the scratched wall. "Sorry," he mumbled, although his chest was still tight with his frustration. He did like Mr. March, found him fascinating, admired him even. And there wasn’t much out there that impressed Tristan these days. "I didn't mean to mess it up." He wondered what sort of punishment waiting for him, as March propelled him down the corridor

They stopped before a locked door. Tristan could, very faintly, hear the sound of movement from within, and a chill ran through him. He’d seen what Mr. March was capable of, had read countless article upon article online, the lurid details reflected in the badly photoshopped artwork that attempted to re-enact the gore and the ruin that the man had caused. He should have known better, should have shown some semblance of self-control. But he had just been so angry. So frustrated. No one ever took him seriously. 

He sighed with his entire body, and felt the hand release its grip on his arm. “I’m stupid, all right?” he said, but it wasn’t so much a question as a declaration. “I just don’t think. But is that any reason to kill me?”  
“Kill you?” Mr. March exclaimed. He laughed then, loud and long, a pleasant sound that bubbled out from his throat, filling the silent corridors. “What would it benefit me to do in my favorite protégé?” 

Tristan wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, but he figured that it was something good, since March seemed so thrilled. But he still frowned. 

"Take heart, my boy!" March exclaimed, clapping Tristan on the back as he opened the door for him, beckoning him with an outstretched arm. 

The pouty expression faded from Tristan's face, replaced with a beatific smile when he beheld what was before him: a slumbering young couple, dripping with trendy disdain even in their sleep. A straight razor was pressed into his hand.

"Thought that would do the trick!" Mr. March said, standing back, ready to watch the fun


End file.
